Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (9 page)

“Oh, fuck,” Naomi moans, dropping her gaze to mine, giving me one of those special woman to woman looks. It's so universal, I can't help but smile. Turner's a handful. I certainly wouldn't want to deal with him.
Good luck with the silly dumb fuck.
“Can you just go? Don't you have a
van
to catch? Wichita is calling.”

“You can't drive me away, no matter what you do.” Turner slams his hand into the wall by Naomi's head, leaning over so that his lips brush her ear. “You're stuck with me until the day your wrinkly ass falls out of a wheelchair and croaks.”

“How romantic,” she says sarcastically, but her entire demeanor changes. I watch her lips twitch at the corners, her shoulders relax, the pulse in her neck fluttering. Jealousy surges through me hot and quick, tearing at the edges of my self-control and knocking the breath from my lungs. It's not Turner that I want though. Wouldn't ever want another woman's man, but it's the idea of having someone there by your side. I want that. I mean, who doesn't, right? But just seeing it flaunted and paraded in front of my face like that makes me sick to my stomach.

Without waiting for another word from them, I spin on my heel and stomp down the hallway. Tears try to prick my eyes again, but I won't let 'em fall. Fuck 'em. I don't need to cry. I have the whole world ahead of me. I have the promise of power and fame and money. I won't ever need to worry another day in my life after this.

But after seems so far away, and in my suitcase is a mask I wore to kill a woman. A mask I used to board Amatory Riot's bus and steal Naomi Knox away. A mask that's more my face than the one I'm wearing now. At least the mask shows the real me, the true person inside. At least the mask shows a monster.

“We're leaving in about an hour,” my manager says, cornering me outside the door to my room. I have to curl my fists by my sides to keep from socking her right between her buggy, bulging eyes. They pop out of her face like one of those rubber toys, you know the ones they sell for overworked corporate cubical cage rats to squeeze so they won't just flip out and shoot people?

I have no problem going to Wichita for the day. In fact, I'd probably hump a bitch just to get out of Oklahoma City. It isn't that I don't like the town. I just don't like the idea of staying in one place for too long. I've lived my whole life desperate to get out, make something of myself. Besides, tonight it'll just be Ice and Glass with Indecency. One step closer to taking over the world, right?
Bye, bye Amatory Riot.
But something about KK makes me want to be contrary.

“Why are we leaving so fucking early? Seems like a waste of time to me.” I cross my arms over my chest and let KK get a load of my tits. She doesn't have any of which to speak, so I know it pisses her off to see me flashing mine around like they're made of diamonds. She just stares at me, her frizzy hair clinging to the sides of her sweaty face. She always looks like a freaking train wreck, but today is worse than usual. Her eyes are all shifty, darting from side to side like she expects someone to leap out at her.

“Milo Terrabotti thinks it'd be best to remove his band from the situation boiling outside. I'm inclined to agree.”
Hah,
I think as I stare at her pimply chin.
You're inclined to agree? You're inclined to listen to whatever Mr. Rutledge tells you to do.
This is one of the reasons I hate dealing with KK so much. It's like she isn't even a real person, just a bot for Mr. Rutledge to use when he isn't around. I miss our old manager, Monroe. She might not have been able to book us a gig like this, but she had a passion for our music. Monroe actually gave a shit about the heart and soul. Right now, it's all about the money and the fame. And the destruction. Can't forget about that bit. Everything comes at a price anyway, right?

“Yeah, alright, whatever you say,
boss
.” I throw the term out there as an insult and open the door to my room. As soon as I get inside, I feel the wrongness in the air, but it's too late.

“Hey there, bitch,” Hayden Lee growls, grabbing me from behind and shoving me forward onto the bed. “Where've you been? You get Ronnie into bed yet? It's not really all that difficult, you know.”

“Get the fuck off me you anorexic scrag,” I snarl, elbowing her in the side and trying not to grin when I feel myself connect with her boney ribcage. I flip around and stumble away from the bed, watching as she sits back and leans against Cohen's bare leg. He's sitting in my bed smoking a cigarette, his junk hanging out like it's on display. Unfortunately for him his family jewels have never been museum quality.

“Put your ugly chode away, Cohen,” I say, adjusting my glasses while I try to assess the situation. It smells like dirty tuna and skank in here now. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what they've been doing. “Am I supposed to care that you fucked this ho?” I ask with a laugh while Hayden leans back and rubs all over Cohen's chest, curling his hair around her finger. Looking at him now, it's almost possible for me to remember the boy he was not so long ago. I've always thought he had a sloppy charming sort of look. Now, he just plain disgusts me. “Because believe me, from what I've heard that's not really a difficult accomplishment.” I pause and study Hayden's blue eyes. They're so clear, I can see straight through 'em and down to the murky depths of her shallow soul. I'd sure like to cut the bitch. There's nothing worse than a traitor. Nothing. “Naomi Knox is looking for you,” I tell her, watching her face for some flash of emotion, something that tells me she regrets getting involved in this. I know the circumstances, but what I can't understand is the fervor in her eyes, the way she relishes every cut, every scrape. She just doesn't act like someone who's being blackmailed.

“So?” Hayden asks, sitting up and snatching her purse from Honesty's bed. She digs around in it and comes up with a joint. “Why should I give a fuck?” She lights up and inhales deeply, blowing smoke into the stagnant air of the hotel room. “If you guys hadn't fucked things up, she wouldn't even
be
here right now.” Hayden closes her eyes and sways back and forth, in time to some beat neither Cohen or I can hear.

I put my hands on my hips and listen to the call of the ice crystallizing in my veins. It tells me I'm happy, that nothing bad's ever happened to me, that I am a fucking superwoman. My heart swears otherwise. I choose to ignore it. If I keep feeling sorry for Ronnie, for that … that dead girl, for myself, I won't ever get anything done. Besides, I know, just like we all know, that there's no getting out of this now. If I try to leave, I'll end up like Amatory Riot and Indecency: a walking corpse with an expiration date.

“You mean if Eric hadn't fucked up,” Cohen snarls, rubbing at his stubbly chin. He doesn't like to admit failure. “What kind of screwball bangs his own sister? Man, I'm glad that guy's dead and gone.” My ex struggles to sit up, focusing on my face with narrowed eyes, like I walked in here just to bother him, rub his feathers the wrong way.

“Why are you in my fucking bed?” I ask him, hoping the maids haven't done their rounds yet. Last thing I need is a bed full of Cohen's runny jizz. “Don't you have your own room?”

“We wanted to check in on you,” Hayden says, forcing herself to her feet. She's wearing these five inch yellow heels. Watching her stumble around in them makes me think of a giraffe or something. Wish I could send this bitch back to the wild where she belongs. I wouldn't mind seeing her get eaten by a lion. I smile with my teeth.

“Check in on me? Don't you have jobs of your own to do?”

I turn to go when Hayden appears out of nowhere, shoving me hard in the center of the back and sending me stumbling. I hit the wall hard and turn to face her. She just stands there smiling, her shirt hanging off her shoulder, wet with sweat, panties sagging on her skinny hips. I thought Ronnie was pathetic, but he's nothing compared to this bitch. At least he knows there's something wrong with him. I don't know if Hayden has any clue.

“The second one goes down tonight,” she says, and my heart stops. I don't think of Ronnie or his kids then. I can't, not even with the drugs kissing my soul with sweet, sinful lips. Some things are just too hard to mask. Some things are simply unforgivable.

I sit on the bed for a long time, so long that I'm afraid Milo's going to come in and tell me we have to leave. My hands are shaking so bad, I can hardly scan through my contacts, searching for the women I have to call. This isn't about me and my discomfort; this could mean their lives.

Shannon (Phoebe).

That's the entry I want, the one that's going to be the hardest to get through. Phoebe's only a few months old, and her mother thinks I shit sin. She won't even let me meet our daughter though she's got no problem taking a cut of my checks. I slap the phone against my lips and close my eyes, trying to picture her face.

I got nothin'.

I always make fun of Turner for being a whore, but there's a pretty good chance I'm worse than he is. At least he doesn't have any children out in the world, suffering because he was too fucked up to bag his junk.

I sit there for another five minutes, my heart racing in my chest. What if I call Shannon and her parents answer again? How am I going to deal with that? Last time nearly killed me.
How dare you touch my daughter, you parasite?! Is there something wrong with you? She's only eighteen years old for God's sake.
If I hadn't been on the phone with the man, I think her father might've killed me.

Sucking in a massive breath, I yank the phone away from my mouth, hit the dial button and wait. My vision blurs and white splotches cover my eyes. I listen to the ring tone, letting the repetitive sound put me into a small trance. I can't help it. I am literally terrified of these women. I don't know if it's because I see my inadequacies so clearly when I think of them and my children or what, but it's almost paralyzing. If someone were to break in this room and come at me, I wouldn't be able to stop them. I'd lay down and die, and be happy for the opportunity.

“
You've gotta stop that self-deprecating crap, Ronnie. I told you last night, if you don't care about yourself, who the else is going to? Pull your head out of your ass and just stop.”

Lola Saints' words again. Not Asuka's. The fuck is going on?

As the phone continues to ring, I get caught up in another memory. One that's less crisp than the other, more like a watercolor painting instead of an oil. I think about that first moment when I saw Asuka Maebara in Japanese 1A at the high school. She was standing at the front of the room, leaning over the teacher's desk, laughing, her hands curled around the edges of a textbook. When she turned around and spotted me, she smiled.
“Konnichiwa. Namae wa nan desu ka?”
I had no clue what she was saying, but her words swirled my brain like a tropical storm. I could barely sit down in my desk, could barely focus on the teacher. All I cared about was his beautiful helper, the girl who would consume my life and break my soul.

“Hello?”

I leap to my feet and swallow back a rush of vomit.
Oh God, I can't do this. Shit. I can't. I can't.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line is young and feminine. It has to be Shannon. And I hate myself for even having to
guess
that. I should just know. I open my mouth and come up blank. I have no idea what to say.
Might've been nice to mull that over first huh, genius?

“Shannon?” I ask tentatively. I'd hate to launch into some long-winded speech only to find out it's her sister on the end of the line or something. I only have the guts in me to pull this off once.

“Yeah? Who's this?” she asks, sounding slightly annoyed. Her voice is high and piercing, and her accent nasally. Not sure how we ever made it into the bedroom.
Shut your fucking mouth, Ronnie. You have room to criticize others? I don't friggin' think so.

“This is Ronnie,” I say and then thinking she might not know me either, decide to add, “McGuire.” Silence. “I'm the father of your baby.”

“I know who the fuck you are, asshole,” she snaps at me, suddenly on the verge of tears. “What do you want?” Another sniffle breaks through the line. I nibble at my lip for a moment, running my tongue across the newly bare skin below my mouth.